


Dread (CYOA)

by twinkinu



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Choose Your Own Adventure, Elements of Victim Blaming, Gen, Heavily Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Stangst, fiddleford's sweet fragile little soul, happy ending no matter what, homeless stan, i reserve the right to override your decisions in the interest of protecting my boys, nothing explicit at all, self-stitches, stan's questionable medical expertise, tags and warnings are being updated as angst develops per readers' requests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11361906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinkinu/pseuds/twinkinu
Summary: A punch, theclinkof brass against bone, the Leader dropping his knife. Everything happens too fast for Ford to keep up. Suddenly, he’s breathing without the cold, sharp metal of the blade (unforgiving, heavily impending) on his neck and there’s a new stranger (tall, red hood, brass knuckles) throwing punches and getting punched (fighting, stabbing, blood, oh myGod)and then someone’s shouting "For Moses’ sakes, get the hell out of here!Run!"A choose-your-own-adventure story filled with lots of stangst and (hopefully) some brotherly love. You don't control any particular character—after each chapter, just leave in the comments what you want to happen next!





	1. Part 1: Playing Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Experimenting with a new writing style and also I love the idea of choose-your-own adventure stories.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Um, listen, guys, I don’t- I’m not looking for trouble.”

The voice (shaken, trembling) is coming from an alleyway (cold, hard concrete walls and ground wet with rain, spit, blood in the dark damp nighttime of the Bad Part of town), and Stan pulls his hood up and puts his head down, looks straight ahead, glances around every fourth step to make sure no one’s approaching. He knows to keep his head down when this shit happens. He’s made the mistake of playing hero before (bruised knuckles, broken ribs, gaping stab wounds, bleeding, bleeding, _Bleeding)_ and he really doesn't want a repeat of cleaning up his own mess (dental floss, bourbon, a Victorinox knife).

“Hand over the fucking bag.”

Stan would know that sort of talk anywhere, the way the words are emphasized confidently and without any fear of opposition; it’s the voice after a weapon’s been brandished and intentions are made clear, the my-knife-is-against-your-throat-and-I-know-you-won’t-fight-back voice. He discreetly quickens his pace as he nears the alley, hoping to pass by unnoticed, tightening his fists and shoving his concealed brass knuckles _(Just In Case)_ deeper into his pockets.

“Take it! Have it, I-I don’t- It’s yours. Just- L-let me go.”

Stanford winces as the blade is pressed closer to his neck (big, serrated, rusted, blood-stained, holy _Hell)._ The man holding him to the wall hisses, “We’ll let you go when we’re good and ready, alright? You’ll _know_ when we’re done with you.” Ford nods minutely, swallowing thickly and feeling his Adam’s apple move against the cold steel of the knife. “Hand it over.”

The man (the Leader?) steps back just enough to let Ford hurriedly shed his backpack and hold it forward, hands trembling. A second man (how many more, _how many more_ ) grabs it, zips it open, and starts rummaging through.

Ford gulps again, about to lower his hands, when suddenly someone grabs his wrists (too strong, too tight, sharp fingernails digging into thin, apologetic skin in the inky, unforgiving night and Stanford suddenly feels a new kind of Vulnerable, like fear, panic, terror aren't good enough words to describe it anymore because they don't capture the _helplessness_ or the _resignation_ accurately enough—is this Dread?). An evil smile curls on the man’s lips, shining grossly through the darkness. “What’s this?” he almost laughs, and Dread, Dread, _Dread_ is the Perfect Word.

“I- Uh-”

“Johnny, come fuckin’ look at this.”

Instead of one, two men rush forward, eyes going straight to Ford’s hands. One of them laughs and the other curls his lip in disgust.

“What’s wrong with this picture, Johnny?”

“He’s got too many fingers, boss.”

“He’s got too many fuckin’ fingers! I mean, holy shit, man, what else are you hidin’?”

“He’s a fucking freak!”

“I’m not touching that guy.”

“Holy shit, Reese is afraid of the freak!”

“I’m not fuckin’ touching him, man! He’s a fuckin’-”

A punch, the _clink_ of brass against bone, the Leader dropping his knife. Everything happens too fast for Ford to keep up. Suddenly, he’s breathing without the cold, sharp metal of the blade (unforgiving, heavily impending) on his neck and there’s a new stranger (tall, red hood, brass knuckles) throwing punches and getting punched (fighting, stabbing, blood, oh my _God)_ and then someone’s shouting “For Moses’ sakes, get the hell out of here! _Run!”_

But Ford is frozen.

And before Ford knows it, the new stranger loses his advantage and crashes into the ground, coughing blood (blood, blood, _Blood)_ with one of Ford’s attackers kicking him, one rifling through his wallet, and one saying something along the lines of, “We gonna use him instead?”

“He’ll get what’s comin’ to him for damn near punching my lights out, I’ll tell you that much.”

“At least this one’s got the right fuckin’ amount of fingers.”

The Leader walks over to them, kneels down to get a better look at the man (still conscious, grappling weakly as the loss sinks in, face still obscured by darkness, shadows, blood, blood, Blood), and a feeling (sudden, welcome, blooming) swells in Ford’s gut as he realizes that he’s been forgotten about.

And just like that, he can move again. He spins on his heel to run (somewhere, anywhere) and find help for the random stranger who saved his life and is now apparently about to be somehow _used,_ but then another voice rings out, vulgar, mockingly intrigued, attentive, _delighted_ (“Check it out—this jackass got rescued by his doppelganger”) and Ford freezes.

(Heart stopping, racing, seizing, throbbing all at once, _what, who, how_ and also _no, no, No.)_ He turns back around, and the bruised, bloodied, struggling figure who replaced Ford in the alley is his Brother.

Is his Twin.

Is Stanley Jacob Pines.

Is getting his clothes cut open, torn apart, ripped off, pushed aside, and holy _Hell._

“Oh my God.”

 _(“Ford,_ **_run!_ ** _”)_

As if his body could possibly obey him now.


	2. Part 2: Homeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _RedPineTree:_  
>  **  
>  _Smh he better go back and help his brother_

Anger, alarm, adrenaline (the release of epinephrine by the adrenal glands in response to stress, an adrenomedullary response controlled by the sympathetic nervous system), and Stanford is running, hitting, punching (reluctant late nights in boxing lessons,  _ I should be studying, _ “You’ll thank me later”), and maybe it’s the element of surprise but one of them is actually on the ground before Ford takes his first punch to the gut.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

(He doesn’t know who’s talking, it doesn’t sound like Stan but how would he know what Stan sounds like these days, anyway?)

Even as Stan asks the question, he’s fighting with renewed vigor, catching the Leader by his ankles (hands untied; the guy got up to deal with Ford before finishing the knot) and pulling, and he hits the ground with a shout, dropping his knife, and Ford picks it up.

Two more men pull their knives out, but Stan is up, now, on his feet, and despite the wound in his shoulder he manages to swing a punch strong enough to send one of them forward, and Ford catches him with an uppercut to the jaw—the fight goes on, Ford and the goon, while Stan grabs the last man by the shirt and hits him (once, twice, thrice) against the brick wall.

Ford’s not making it out unscathed (swollen eye, throbbing gut, bloody nose, shock, trauma,  _ Dread) _ but he’s making it out, he’s blindly staring down at four unconscious criminals and his long-lost brother is rummaging through their pockets, collecting what they took from him and what they already had. 

“S-Stanley?”

“Here.” He’s pushing the backpack into Ford’s chest (textbooks, journals, pens, a calculator), then picking up a scrap of cloth (dirty, blood-stained, formerly a piece of Stan’s shirt) and wrapping it around his stab wound. “Thanks,” he grumbles.

“For what?” Ford asks dumbly, and Stan glances at him incredulously for a half second, but never makes eye contact and immediately goes back to dressing his wound.

“Y’know. For not jus’ leavin' me there, I guess.”

(Ford furrows his brow, almost keeps talking,  _ Why would I leave you there, _ but his brain catches up to his mouth before he can make that mistake.)

“Uh, yeah, don’t... Don’t mention it.”

Stan just grunts  _ (Believe me, I won't) _ , turns around, starts walking away, and Ford can’t stop himself.

“Stanley, wait.”

“What?” His voice (cold, hard, impatient) seems too quiet but also too loud; his muscles are tense, frozen in place.

“Are- Uh.” Why did Ford call out? What did he have to say? “Are you alright?”

“Peachy.”

Silence, imposing darkness reminding Ford he’s still at risk. Stan’s mind is apparently in the same place. 

“Look, just- Follow me.”

“I-”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed out here.”

Inarguable logic. 

Stanford’s mouth opens and closes several times as he searches for some sort of socially appropriate response, but Stan is already walking away, so he follows. 

Silence.

“Um, Stanley-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Wh-”

“That’s not my name anymore.”

“St- I- What the devil are you talking about?”

“That name’s got a bad reputation now.”

(In another world, another story, Ford might have smiled, snorted, chuckled,  _ It always did, _ but the body that used to be his brother’s is walking in front of him, half-naked, slouched posture, skinny hips, large strained muscles, scars all over his body that make Ford think this isn't the first time he’s been stabbed in an alley, and yeah, maybe this  _ isn’t  _ Stanley Pines anymore.)

“Oh.”

Silence.

“What, uh... What do I call you?”

“Don’t.”

“...Oh.”

Silence.

The only thing to dispel the silence (thick, heavy, bitter, slow—molasses) is the rushing thoughts in Ford’s head, the confusion, anticipation, anxiety (fear, terror,  _ Dread) _ , until a cool red Cadillac (beat-up but cared for, straddling a line between pristine and junkyard-worthy that Ford didn’t know could be straddled) comes into view and Stan speeds up, closes the distance between their vulnerable selves and the shelter, slides the key in the door and unlocks it so smoothly, entirely muscle memory. 

“Still got the Stanleymobile, huh?” An attempt in vain to add some levity, some nostalgia. 

Any possibility, however infinitesimal, of either brother cracking a smile is effectively vanquished when Stan grumbles, “Gotta live somewhere.”

Ford’s never thought of that before, that not living in their house meant not living  _ anywhere, _ and it’s a simple concept (not to mention an obvious one), but for some reason (anger, regret, denial, Dread), Ford never considered it. 

That losing his home meant being Home _ less.  _

“Lee-”

“Get in the car.” He’s already slamming the door, turning the ignition, gripping the wheel with resolve. 

“I- Why?”

“I’m takin' you somewhere.”

Ford frowns, glances around as if an explanation will appear. “Where?”

“A better part of town.”


	3. Part 3: Hypovolemic Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __**ciycat:** How about Ford asking some questions and Stan being all doggy  
>  Stan wasn't varry good at opening up before but now he just doesn't know how to do it at all  
> and Ford doesn't get why 
> 
>  
> 
> _**McLucky13:** So, Stan needs some first-aid/actual medical help with that stab wound. Don't know if Ford helps or if Stan instructs Ford on how to help with a stab wound...? Are they also going to ignore that Stan was almost (heavily implied) raped? Shouldn't Ford be thinking of "What if I wasn't there to stop this?" Or "Has this happened before?". Lets slowly amp up Ford's guilt. Stan i would love if he kept up this hard-to-approach attitude but he'd get all gruff/soft about Ford's wounds._
> 
>  
> 
> _**Ancient_Ouroboros:** How about...Stan's driving but getting weaker and weaker. He passes out and Ford has to help him, but he can't take him to the hospital because he's wanted._

The car ride brings silence, the silence brings thoughts that writhe like roundworms in Ford’s mind and dig up guilt, regret, Dread.

He swallows thickly as he considers the sight he’d seen as he realized who the new stranger was. His Brother, his Twin, barely struggling as one man tied his hands, one emptied his pockets, one ripped away his clothes, one just stood there,  _ watching- _

(No.)

The expression on Stan’s face was the worst part. It was (hopeless, resigned, indifferent) submissive. That expression had accepted whatever was about to happen.

If Ford had run... Would Stan have surrendered entirely?

What if he had surrendered?

Ford wants to say something, anything, so he looks back toward his Brother in preparation to do so. As they pass a streetlight that temporarily illuminates Stan’s rugged form, Ford’s eyes are caught by something that rips the words from his throat before he can stop them:

“Stan, you’re bleeding.” (Urgency, but no panic. Firm, shellshocked voice, anxiety lying just beneath his words as a thick green vine pulls him out of quicksand thoughts.)

“Great work, Detective.”

“No, I mean you’re- you’re bleeding a  _ lot.” _

“I’ll be fine.”

The dirty scrap of cloth intended to act as a tourniquet isn’t working; dark, thick, unashamed blood is trailing down cold, casehardened arms in an unmitigated stream. 

“Don’t you-” Ford hesitates fractionally, the sight of the deep wound bringing him fully back into the present; he looks from the wound to Stan’s expression, then swallows thickly, twitches his fingers, bites his lip. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Whatever.” Stan shuts his eyes tight, then opens them as wide as he can. He’s underwater—surfacing periodically to breathe, keep the car on the road, but there’s water in his ears, pressure in his sinuses, and suddenly he might throw up. 

He floors the brakes. Ford’s caught by the seatbelt, and the nylon leaves a sharp, linear burn above his collarbone. “Stan?!”

“Fuck.”

“What happened?”

_ “Fuck.” _

“What’s wrong?”

“Headache.”

Ford presses the back of his hand against Stan’s cheek; Stan jumps, jerks away, tenses up, looks at his brother with wide eyes and narrow pupils.

They’re both still. Silent. Molasses. For a long, painful moment. 

Then, “I’m sorry.” “Don’t touch me.” (Spoken at once, on top of each other, one voice hesitant, the other rigid, both confused.)

And then they’re silent again.

_ (Nine... Ten... Eleven... Twelve...) _

“You’re cold.”

“What?”

“Your skin, it’s- clammy.”

“So what?”

Pale skin, sweaty brow, shortened breaths, and his arm (red, red,  _ Red) _ isn’t getting any better. 

“You need to go to the hospital.”

“No,” he says, too fast, and he’s about to let off the brake when Ford reaches over, grabs the gear shift, and parks the car. 

Stan (incredulous, indignant) snaps. “Dude, what the  _ fuck?!” _

Ford doesn’t take his hand off the shift. “You’re going to the hospital,” he insists, loudly, firmly, staring his brother in the eye.

_ “No.” _

“Why  _ not?” _

“‘Cause I don’t fuckin’ exist, Ford! Do I look like I have a legal ID?”

“You’re going to enter hypovolemic shock!”

“I’m  _ gonna _ go to jail if I go to a fuckin’ hospital!”

_ “Jail? _ For what?!”

“I dunno if you  _ forgot, _ Stanford, but I just saved your ass from getting gang raped and stabbed to death in the middle of the fucking red light district! Maybe if you started minding your own business and stopped walking the streets at night, I wouldn’t have to go to the fucking hospital in the first place!”

Silence.

Regret. 

(Vertigo, nausea, headache, fatigue.)

Ford licks his lips (dry mouth, churning stomach, Dread) and opens his mouth to speak, but nothing happens.

Stan does speak, barely. He says “Fuck,” quiet, dizzy, lightheaded, and taps his head against the steering wheel.

“Let me-” (Roundworms, nematodes, guilty little parasites,  _ This is your brother, This is your fault) _ “At least let me wrap it for you.”

“Fine.” Underwater, Molasses, too weak to protest (too weak to say  _ No) _ .  

Ford clicks on the dome light and tells Stan to lay his seat back. He doesn’t. The elder twin just sighs, unties the blood-soaked cloth, looks around for something to stop the bleeding—there’s a pile of clothes in the back seat, dirty, greasy, fetid, and he grabs a T-shirt, balls it up, pushes it against the gash in his brother’s shoulder. Stan tenses, flinches, winces at every touch, and every time, Ford feels the roundworms burrow deeper.

“It’s-”  _ (It’s just me. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.) _

“Shut up.”

Ford swallows, licks his lips again, nods. “Sorry.”

No one speaks for the rest of the process (about twenty minutes). Once the bleeding stops, he finds some water, an old, warm bottle under the passenger’s seat, and wets the T-shirt to start cleaning the caked blood off of Stan’s arm. There’s a lot of blood (not a lot of water) and he only manages to clean the area right around the gash; it’s enough to make Ford wince, look away, busy himself trying to tear off a piece of the shirt so he can wrap the wound properly. 

When Stan finally talks, he says, “Pretty gnarly, huh?” and Ford just hums.

“Looks like you’ve had much worse.”

“Heh. Yeah.” Like it’s no big deal. He rolls his shoulders back experimentally, says something quiet, fast, under his breath, something that half-sounds like  _ Thanks, _ but Ford doesn’t mention it.

They just sit for a while, the silence a fraction more comfortable, until suddenly Stan sits up, clears his throat, shifts around. “Uh, you’re not...”

Ford raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t, uh... They didn’t hurt you. Did they?”


	4. Part 4: The Smart One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Lovely Axolotl:** Thinking that Ford would have some cuts and bruises but for the most part be fine. Stan would try to hide his relief but Ford would notice and feel a very very small but of hope that Stan may still care even though he seems so different now. Also after so much blood loss Stan and probably not enough proper nourishment or sleep (for would notice these small things too) to cope with his injury he is in no condition to drive. They would argue this for a bit until Stan inevitably gets faint and gruffly and very reluctantly aggres to let Ford drive_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been keeping up with this so far, especially those who've been choosing their paths! I just want to remind y'all that the more you give me to work with, the faster I can finish the next chapter!!
> 
> This one's a bit later than I wanted because I had to work a 12-hour shift yesterday (the third). I work another one tomorrow (the fifth) but then I'm off work for two days and should be able to pump a few chapters out, so don't hold back with the suggestions!!

“No, I’m- I’m alright, Stanley. No need to worry.”

“Like, before I got there, they didn’t...” He trails off, clears his throat. His eyes (softer, kinder, more concerned—maybe just more  _ tired _ ) rest carefully on Ford and scan him for any visible injuries beyond his swollen eye, his bloody nose. 

“I’m fine—Really.” 

He studies Ford’s face for a long moment (mistrustful, memories floating in the back of his still-swimming mind,  _ Did they hurt you, _ “I’m alright,” finding a nebula of bruises on Ford’s back the next day). “You sure?”

“Positive.”

_ (I’m gonna kill him, _ “Lee, he’s not worth the time,”  _ He hurt you, _ “He’ll just hurt you, too.”)

Stan eventually decides Ford is telling the truth (too tired to be suspicious), sits back in his seat, feels his muscles relax again (relief, exhaustion, darkness around the corners of his vision). “Good,” he breathes, only to himself. 

Ford smiles (faint, microscopic, brief, a tiny sign of hope flitting across his lips because the look in Stan’s eyes just now, that wasn’t the stranger; that was him, that was Brother, that was Stanley Pines).

“Let’s get going,” he mumbles, gazing ahead, eyes focussed more on middle distance than the street, and Ford watches (careful, scrupulous, studying every change in his brother’s disposition, noticing every scar, scrape, scab that wasn’t there four years ago).i

“I don’t think you should be driving.”

Stan just scoffs, then he blinks slowly. His lids slip down, rest halfway over his eyes, fully close for one, two, three long seconds, then his eyes open, first just a crack, then gradually the rest of the way. His lashes are heavy, underwater, and his eyes start to sting with the crisp salt of the sea. 

“Stanley,” he sort of hears Ford say (distant, blurry, underwater), and he’s swimming, sinking, Drowning...

“What?” he mumbles, slurs.

“Let me drive.”

Automatic, “Fuck no.”

“You can’t drive. You lost too much blood. It’s not safe.”

“Now you’re gonna tell me what’s safe,” he mutters, to himself, under his breath, not at all bitter (Bitter). “S'not safe to stay here.”

“You’re going to faint.” His words are over-enunciated, firm, no room for argument. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Pfft.”

“That’s not an answer.” 

“We have to  _ leave. _ What don’t you get about that?”

“I’m not suggesting that we stay here; I’m telling you to let me drive.”

“You don’t even know where we’re going!”

“I’ll just go back to my place. I’ll...” He bites his lip, tries to ignore the way his stomach flips when he says, “I’ll drop you and the car off at a nearby hotel and catch a bus to campus.”

Stan looks down, stares at his hands. They don’t look like his; they look too raw, too calloused (too bloody, angry, pale). “You’re in school.” The words taste strange on his tongue. Alien. 

“Yeah.”

The air is still and lukewarm, and the brothers sit in stale silence for a long moment.

“Okay,” Stan says finally, opening the driver’s side door and slowly getting out, leaning heavily against the car as he makes his way to the passenger’s side. Ford slides over the console into the other seat, feeling unsafe outside of the car.

Ford was the smart one ( _ always _ been The Smart One), because as Stan steps out of his car, he feels strong, rough, merciless hands grab, squeeze, pull on his wrists and throw him to the ground (slate grey asphalt against aching bones, clammy skin, warm bruises, fresh cuts).

“Stetson fuckin’ Pinefield,” the man spits, but Stan is weak, weak, Weak, and he can’t get up, can’t fight, can’t speak. He’s trapped in a useless body screaming at himself to tell Stanford  _ Gun it!  _ because he should at least keep himself safe, the Smart One, the Good Twin, the one with the future, the one with the brains, the one Ma and Pa wanted ( _ always _ been The One They Wanted). “Thought you were gonna skip town without sayin’ goodbye to me?”


	5. Part 5: Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __**roxy0908:** [Ford is startled at the sudden fact that there's a guy leering over his brother. he calls out in surprise and the guys attention steers towards stanford. the guy says something towards stanley, probably some snide comment, before rounding on stanley. ford thinks about hitting the guy with his car but realizes he'll hit stanley too and decides that he should just get out of the car and fight off the attacker.]  
>  **CCs_World:** [Ford launches himself out of the car and fcking DECKS the guy but the guy quickly gets his bearings and fights back]  
>  **fex_libris:** [ford had been carrying some college textbooks. i bet a blow to the head from one of those might be enough to knock out this attacker]  
>  **Ancient_Ouroboros:** [Stan's lost a lot of blood and hallucinates that the attacker is Crampelter or Filbrick.  
>  Ford gets a burst of adrenaline and knocks the guy out and drags Stan into the Stanleymobile. He drives like a bat out of hell out of there, but the adrenaline wears off and he's shaking so violently he can't keep his foot on the pedal. He's in despair because Stan's unconscious in the back seat and he can't take him back to his dorm.]

“Oh, my God,” Ford gasps, panic setting in like a cold, dense ball in the pit of his stomach (wringing, writhing, aching, Nematodes). “Oh my God, oh my God-”

“Hey.” Harsh, heavy, cruel. Ford’s gaze snaps up to the man standing over his Brother. The man’s expression falters for a half moment before he grins, Cheshire teeth, tight lips. “Hey,” he says again, this time bright, light, smooth (teasing, mocking, condescending). “What have we here?”

Stan coughs, “Fuck you,” barely audible, easily ignored. “Leave ‘im alone.”

“Stetson number two, huh?” He tears his eyes from Ford, yanks Stan up by the collar of his shirt, pulls him close, talks down his throat. “He as good as he looks?”

It takes the last two and a half ounces of fight Stan has left in him to sip a breath, suck on his tongue, and spit (saliva, mucus, blood) in the guy’s face.

One rage-driven punch, and Stan is back on the ground, conscious only by will power, adrenaline, determination to Make It Out Alive because he’s not just fighting for his own ass anymore.

(Fat load of good consciousness is doing him, now; he’s awake, vomiting blood and bile onto the street, too weak to stand, speak, even move, and suddenly he’s a kid again, seventeen years old, Pa’s burning handprint on his cheek, and he can’t fight back, he can’t comprehend what’s going on, and he looks up to see

Ford’s panic is overwhelming. He gasps, looks down at his hands (pearly white-knuckled grip on a cold leather steering wheel) and considers, briefly, driving away.

He’s never been more offended by his own mind.

“No,” he says, out loud, and maybe he _should_ drive, should run the son of a bitch over, but No, he’d hit Stanley, too, but No, that’s not Stanley, but _Yes,_ _that’s Stanley Pines, your Brother, your Twin, but_ No.

No, that hasn’t been Stanley Pines in a long time.

But when the attacker’s fist collides with Stan, Ford feels everything (rage, terror, Dread), and he’s surging out of the car and his fist is colliding with the attacker’s jaw before his mind can even process his rush of adrenaline. The man staggers backward, throws a right hook back to Ford, but Ford dodges it, ducks down, gifts the stranger with a firm hit where it counts.

As fast as the attacker hits the ground, Ford’s back in the car, because he’s weak (bruised knuckles, bruised eye, bruised abdomen), not strong enough to fight this guy, not strong enough to quickly get Stan back in the car and drive off, not strong enough to do any of this Alone (that’s all he’s been since That Night, _Alone,_ but he’s still not used to it, he’s still half useless without his Twin).

But he has his backpack.

He pulls out a textbook _(Advanced Researches of Microbiology and Biochemistry,_ hardcover, eight hundred and thirty-two pages of laboratory theory, applications, every other page bookmarked, annotated, well-worn by twelve fingers meticulously eager to learn), scrambles out of the car, throws his weight into a swing of the book against the back of the attacker’s head before he can recover from his below-the-belt blow.

(Hits him one, two, three more times, panic, adrenaline, protectiveness keeping him going when the man was probably out cold after one hit.)

Stan is unconscious, too, but (two trembling fingers hooked pleadingly beneath a cool, rugged jaw) Alive.

Alive.

_(Alive.)_

* * *

 

Stan cracks his eyes open in a dimly-lit hotel room and groans softly; so it was all a dream.

The problem is that he can't figure out whether it was a good dream or a bad dream. All signs point to bad; nothing good happened, everything was wrapped in pain, regret, and dread, but at the same time...

Well, Stanford was there.

If Stanford had been in his dream, it couldn't have been all bad. Anything with Stanford was exponentially better than reality, anyway.

He sits up and grunts at the dull pain in his abdomen, but that’s almost always there; it’s hardly uncommon for Stan to wake up after a long night of lord-knows-what and ache all over.

Glancing at the shoddy alarm clock on the bedside table, he registers the time and tries to piece together a plan for the rest of the day. He must still be in Washington, which means he needs to leave—ASAP—but if he remembers anything from before he fell asleep (which he really, really doesn’t), he remembers that he has no money. He throws his legs over the bed and tries to stretch out his arms, but a cutting pain blooms in his right shoulder and down his arm, making him wince. “What the hell?”

With his left hand, he rubs at his eyes, glancing down at his shoulder and observing the gauze pad placed neatly on his shoulder and held on tightly with medical tape. He frowns and moves to peel the tape back and see what lies beneath the bandage, but the sound of a door clicking behind him  interrupts his actions. His muscles tense up in active defense, his ears honing in on the area of the sound’s origin as a primal response to a perceived threat.

Then, there’s a voice.

“Oh, you’re awake. How, uh—how are you feeling?”


	6. Part 6: Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _WhisperOfTheDay:_  
>  **  
>  _I expect Stan to be beyond surprised but also, finally, after he comes to his senses, furious with his brother... I expect Ford to be extra careful and gentle, even sheepish, cause of the Guilt still sitting in his gut like a boulder. I know they are going to talk about stuff, at one point, but I fear it's a long road, and it's not like any of them are ready to make the first step. So 'hugging out' is definitely not happening any time soon._  
>  **CCs_World:** Stan's still reeling, wondering how they got out alive, and he still doesn't want to trust Ford but he's reluctantly honest abt how he's feeling (physically) because somehow Ford managed to get them both out of there alive and he feels like he owes him a little trust after whatever just happened last night

Stan looks back, sees Ford standing in the doorway, and jumps a foot in the air in surprise. “Holy  _ moly, _ Ford! What the- holy  _ shit! _ What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ford blinks, a touch embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Yeah, well, ya did! God  _ damn, _ what the hell. Are you—holy shit, that was  _ real?” _

Ford frowns. “Excuse me?”

“You- last night, we- Shit, are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”

“We already talked about this. I’m fine. Are... Are  _ you _ alright?”

“I’m fine,” Stan answers gruffly. “Where are we?”

“I checked us into a hotel. What do you mean, ‘that was real?’”

“What hotel? Where?”

“We’re still in Washington, about an hour west of Seattle. Were you talking about last night? Were you hallucinating?”

“I should get going soon, if I wanna-”

_ “Stanley.” _

“Alright, alright! Yeah, I thought it was a dream. I didn’t think you actually... Well, y’know.”

Ford glances away, that clump of guilt growing in his stomach again, gaining weight by the second. “I, uh... I sort of... messed up. Didn’t I?”

“No, Stanford, no, you didn’t-...” He tapers off, rubbing at the ache in his forehead, and narrows his eyes at nothing before turning to look at his brother, starting to carefully stand from the bed. “Actually, you know what? Yeah, you  _ did!  _ You messed up  _ big time, _ Stanford!” 

He winces and hides his hands behind his back.

“What the fuck were you doing? Walking around at night like that, all fuckin’ vulnerable in your nerd clothes and your glasses. I mean, son of a  _ bitch, _ man, ya might as well’ve had a ‘kick me’ sign taped to your back! Or ‘stab me’ or ‘rape me’ or ‘rob me and leave me for dead.’”

Ford narrows his eyes, growing defensive. “Well, I’m fine now.”

“Yeah—you’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“I saved your ass, too, you know!”

The words come out fast, too fast for him to analyze them before they happen, and he snaps his mouth shut the second he hears himself say them. Stan widens his eyes for a brief, blazing moment before his expression softens and he feels his muscles start to relax as he averts his gaze. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, you did.”

“I mean, I-”

“No,” Stan interrupts. “No, I’m- Thanks.” He sits back down, all fire gone, stomped out by self-consciousness and guilt. “Thanks.”

They sit in silence until Stan clears his throat, looks back over to the bandage on his arm (which is clean, now, no blood or grime), and considers what Ford said: that he saved Stan’s ass, too. Twice, he fought off lowlifes who threatened Stan when it would have been easy, too easy, to run away and save himself. 

So maybe he’s earned a little bit of Stan’s trust. 

“Last night,” he starts, and it feels weird to be talking quiet like this, all vulnerable and sincere. “What happened? After that guy... showed up.”

“Well I, uh...” He coughs awkwardly, then takes a deep breath and says, “I knocked him unconscious with mt Microbiology textbook, then I dragged you into the car and drove away.”

Damn. That’s... pretty awesome. “And uh, you fixed my arm up? With like, a real bandage and everything?” 

“Yes—I took a better look at it, too, and I think you may need stitches, but if you’re still adamantly against seeing a proper doctor, I think I may have a friend who can-”

“No.”

“I- No?”

“No, I can do it myself.”

“Oh. Alright then.” His fingers twitch like he wants to say something else, and Stan wishes he didn’t notice that.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a shit liar, Stanford. Always have been.”

Defeated, he takes a deep breath to prepare for his next question—and that’s not all he’s done to prepare. It’s evident he’s been spending all of his alone time turning this question over in his head, and when he speaks it’s rushed and without inflection, like he’s reciting a script. “I know you said you feel fine, and I both trust your ability to assess your own health and respect your reluctance to share any information with me, but while I was tending to your shoulder I couldn't help but notice some more wounds and scars, and I just want to make sure that you're being safe and-”

“Moses, Ford, look: I’m gonna stop you right there, okay?”

“I- Okay?”

“I’m being about as safe as I can be out there. Alright? If ya really want me to be honest about how I’m feeling, I will. I feel like shit. I’m fuckin’ exhausted, and I’m hungry. And I have a headache. But it’s been about four years since I’ve been anything but tired and hungry and havin' a headache, so I’ll be fine.”

Ford swallows thickly and looks away, biting his lip. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Stan asks defensively.

He takes a deep breath to brace himself. “In regards to what happened—what almost happened—last night...” He shifts his weight a bit, visibly uncomfortable. “How many times has it happened before? How many times has no one saved you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You choose how angsty it gets, people! Don't hold back!


	7. Part 7: The Berlin Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_McLucky13:_ ** _ Stan would go all blank poker face, shrug knowing exactly what Ford is referring to but acts dumb and talks about being robbed a few times or beat up or whatever but would avoid anything about rape. Stan believes Ford will accept the information handed to him, ... Now it's Ford's turn to get angry and calls Stan out on him not answering his question. Stan then goes all (stubbornly) silent and by this point Ford already knows the answer is yes, it has happened before. ... Ford would burst out with the whole, "Why didn't you come to me if it was that bad?!", and Stan just gives the obvious response of a glare. He wouldn't want to be pitied for any of the crap that's happened to him, to be seen as weak to Ford. _
> 
> **_CCs_World:_ ** _ Stanley has lost count of the number of times this has happened at this point, but Stanford's question brings some rather... uncomfortable flashbacks. Stan pushes the memories to the corner of his mind and snaps something at Ford along the lines of "You really wanna know that?" Ford's Guilt gets worse. He's not sure if he actually /does/ want to know. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, you guys really DID bring on the angst! Actually a bit more than expected, but no complaints from me! 
> 
> There were some pretty serious requests after the last chapter though, so I couldn't fit everything into one part—the good news is, you get a double-header this time around.

Stan freezes instantly, and there’s a visible wave washing over him (a cold front moving in from the east, hitting him like a pillowcase filled with stones), everything suddenly shifting back into Flight Mode.

。。。

 _A baseball bat (splintered wood, unyielding to smooth skin and bone as its controller bears down, ruthless, angry, cruel) beating Stan’s abdomen as he holds back his cries (don’t draw attention,_ Don’t be Weak) _._

_“You think you can cheat me, Forrester?” A smooth, calm voice (deep, dire, Dangerous) from behind the assailants. “Did you really think you could get away before I missed all the money you took from me?”_

。。。

“Tons of times,” he deflects. “I’m always gettin' into fights, makin' enemies. Y’know how it is.”

“That’s not what I meant, either.”

。。。

_Gasping for breath on the side of the road (cold, cold nights on snowy streets and fast fights with fake friends), one hand desperately pressed to the gaping gunshot in his thigh (pain, warmth, numbness; blood, blood, Blood), the other pleadingly holding a thumb out to the road._

。。。

“Alright, alright, I’ve lost a few fights. I ain’t Superman, y’know. Been beat up a lot worse than last night, been mugged a few times, but hey—I’m still in one piece, so gimme some credit.”

Ford balls his hands up into fists. “You know what I’m talking about,” he accuses, getting frustrated with the obvious deflections. “Just answer the question.”

。。。

 _A knife to his throat, a harsh, rigid knee forced between his legs. “I said,_ take off your jeans.”

。。。

“I already _answered_ your fuckin’ question, Ford.”

“Don’t play dumb, Lee! Just tell me the truth! Why can’t you be honest for one minute and just _talk to me?”_

“Do you really want me to tell you the truth?!” Stan snaps, hands shaking. “Is that _really_ what you wanna hear?!”

Silence (cool, clear, hollow, like an old snag) overtakes the room. Ford’s mouth is open, and his bottom lip twitches as if his brain is in overdrive and side effects include denial and a loss for words.

Because Ford doesn’t think he really _does_ want to know.

Because he asked the question expecting (hoping, Wishful Thinking) that the answer would be _Never, I’m safe, This was a freak accident, Poindexter, I promise_ and there would be relief and the Guilt, Dread would go away, but now, he knows his Brother isn’t safe (he can’t be safe; if he were safe, he would say so; he’s telling Stanford everything by not saying anything; he must _know_ that Ford will figure it out, so why is he so Ashamed to say it out loud?).

Honestly, he doesn’t want to know the answer.

He doesn’t think he would be able to handle it.

His guilt has expanded in mass to consume his entire body, and his blood starts running backward. “Wh-”

(Guilt, Dread, _Pain,_ Excuses, Memories, Brothers, _Twins.)_

Stan ignores him pointedly, turning a shoulder and crossing his arms.

“Why didn’t you call me?” It’s a whisper, fragile and frail, a young bird on the ground, fluffs of down quivering in the cold air as it wonders how it managed to fall so far from the nest.

Stan is still wordless, unmoving.

“How bad did it get? For how many nights were you out on the streets barely staying alive, wishing you were dead?”

(Both brothers are white-knuckled, Ford in frustration and Guilt, Stan in stunned anxiety at his twin’s shocking poignancy, factual _accuracy.)_

“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you come _home?_ How could it get so bad, Stanley? I would have helped you; you _know_ I would’ve helped.”

And at that, Stan actually laughs.

It’s dry, tasteless, but loud and wholehearted (with what little heart Stan has left) and it shakes the room in its misplaced irony. “Good one,” he deadpans, and Ford is speechless.

“I- Excuse me?”

“Yeah, you fucking watch me drive away from you, then suddenly I _‘know’_ you would help me? I _‘know’_ you’d pick up the phone, I _‘know’_ you’d go right back to being my brother after you fucking _closed the blinds on me?”_

“I- Y-” He stammers a bit, taken aback by the burst of anger. “I was angry!”

“I was _homeless!”_

That word sticks to Stanford. It’s a word that he realized applied to his brother just last night, but he’d already forgotten it, and the reminder is heavy, harsh.

Suddenly, he realizes that this is his fault, that Stan couldn’t have come back if he tried. All these years, it wasn’t Stanley but Stanford who was the Berlin Wall, the stubborn divider between two halves of a whole, and the word _Homeless_ is a desperate revolution, a million angry Berliners armed with demolition tools, hammers, picks, resolved to tear him down, and when Stanley looks at him, bares that pain in his eyes of all he’s seen and done, it hits Stanford like a bulldozer plowing through Bernauer Straße. It hits him, and he cracks.

And he crumbles.


	8. Part 8: And He Falls.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_BlackNightmareDragon:_ ** _ Ford ... realises that yeah, Stan's had it rough while Ford has been going to college, studying hard and getting good grades, just like he always wanted. ... Ford has a breakdown as he realises that this is his fault, he never stopped his father from kicking Stan out. He never bothered to look for him, to contact him or even to help him until now, only because Stan helped him first. Ford feels weak, useless, that he wasn't even able to help himself, let alone his brother, from getting hurt. Sure he did save both their asses, but that doesn't make up for what a shit brother Ford (thinks he) has been. Maybe Stan leaves the hotel, heading back to his car, leaving Ford alone. _

His knees are weak, and the throbbing pain in his eye, nose, abdomen becomes all at once unbearable. Like a miniature near-death experience, the last four years flash before his eyes.

Boiling hot anger, the school of his dreams slipping through his fingers like shards of glass on the beach of his childhood, wrestling his brother to the ground, not caring that he stood no chance against his boxing champ twin.

Thin vaporous apathy, drifting through high school numbly, floating on a 4.3 grade point average and an airy emptiness in his chest, empty like the bottom bunk in his bedroom, misty like his eyes on late nights when he finds himself wishing nobody goodnight.

Condensed stress and frustration, poring over papers and dragging his feet through humid college days as the air gets heavy with loneliness, weighing students down when everybody gives in and gives up under the wet, muggy pressure, but Stanford pushes on, excels, exceeds expectations already set too high.

And then it rains. And university is slippery, fat drops of water on slick, steep slopes, uphill battles, hard work, heavy books, long nights hunched over physics, calculus, dendrology, zoology, sociology, world history, engineering. And when it rains, it pours, but Ford is _happy,_ he’s working, he’s learning, he’s excelling, and he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be. And where has Lee been?

In a desert. Deserted, in every sense of the word—dry, barren, when Stanford’s life was fruitful and rich, and abandoned, cut off from all familial ties as punishment for the crime of ruining Ford’s life, which so quickly recovered from the bump in the road and resumed business as planned.

And did Ford fight back? Did he criticise his father of assigning penalties that didn’t fit the crime? Did he look for his brother, attempt to locate him, establish contact, rekindle a relationship? Or did he close the blinds, turn his back, sit and listen passively as his father expressed nothing but faith in his decision to throw Stanley away? _(Blessings in disguise, kid. We could hardly afford sendin’ two of ya to school)._

It was all his fault—it always has been. He’s a bad brother, a weak link, a lesser half, a useless human hiding behind an intellectual façade to avoid facing the Truth: that he’s never been strong enough to even save himself, and his Brother has been too strong, barely surviving for years because of him.

An apology seems nowhere near enough, an understatement deserving of laughter and mockery, and he would try to apologize anyway, but as he begins to pronounce the two mitigated words _(I’m Sorry)_ , they feel so foreign and wrong on his tongue that he stops, works backwards in his mind, tries to calculate a course of action that he would be physically capable of with the blockage in his throat making every gasp for air a desperate feat.

“Lee-”

“What?” Stan’s answer is gruff, demanding, but his brow is furrowed in a faint show of concern.

Ford just stands there in still silence, internally falling like the Berlin Wall, his brother fixed in a contrite gaze.

And at the lack of response, Stanley just sighs, picks a clean shirt off of the bedside table to pull over his torso, and walks out the door.


	9. Part 9: Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _CCs_World:_** _He like runs out the door like "WAIT STANLEY" and Stan ignores him so Ford grabs at his shirt but Stan flinches away and keeps walking to his car. Ford puts himself between the car and Stan and they have a Confrontation._   
>  **_Roxy0908:_ ** _Ford tries to apologize, feels as if his world is crumbling around him and Stan is taking no shit; taking no apology, even though he really wants to- wants to hope that his brother is there for him again, but he cant be let down again. He cant get his hopes up. He cant let his stupid brother knock down his walls only to leave again. So he starts an argument, starts snapping at Ford because anger is better then an apology ... cue at least someone crying out of frustration ??_   
>  ****_Azraella:_ _... Ford runs to him in tears and apologizes, taking full responsibility for his actions. ... an unknown injury surfaces ... and even though [Stan is] still angry he just can't stop himself from going back to his brother to make sure he's taken care of. When they're back in the room together in a moment if silence Stan answers Ford's first question and let's him in a bit_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy DOOZIE, this one ended up, uh... three times longer than anticipated. i wanted to keep all the chapters under a thousand words so it'd be fast to read and easy to update, but this one accidentally got over 2k words and i have no excuse
> 
> hopefully a really lengthy update will make up for the fact that FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HISTORY i wasn't able to include Every Single Request from the last chapter... y'all had a few conflicting ideas so i included as many as i could while still keeping the chapter comprehensive. hopefully you guys like it??? 
> 
> i worked really ridiculously hard on this one (as evidenced by the 2.4k wordcount) and also experienced some grief from not being able to make everyone happy and worked pretty hard trying to meld as many ideas together as i could, so maybe show me a little love this time around if you like what you see?

Stan is heading across the parking lot, scanning the asphalt grid for his car, hoping Ford took decent care of it on the drive to wherever the hell they are, when he hears scrambling behind him followed by a torn, cracked cry _(“Stanley, wait!”)_ and feels a hand wrap abruptly around his arm, grasping too tight, and instinct takes over. He cringes away severely, yanking his arm violently from the unwelcome grip, and spins around in preparation to confront an attacker.

Instead, he’s faced with his Brother (smudged glasses, damp cheeks, pleading eyes, hair sticking out in directionless fluffs, loose curls glued to his forehead with nervous sweat). Stan’s half-panicked, half-threatening expression falls into a stony, tight-jawed number in which all emotion has been deliberately drained, conditioned into silence over years of poker, scams, confidence tricks.

He makes intentional, pointed eye contact with Ford, and his eyes (blank, shallow, empty, dull) are met with anxiety, pain, contrition, a viciously pleading gaze ringed in purple-pink misery and anguish (disruption, fatigue). It makes him waver, hesitate for a split fraction of a half-second, his brow quirking upward as he considers (briefly) the possibility of stopping, breaking down, allowing himself to feel emotions for the first time in four years, because this is Stanford, this is his _Twin._

In a split fraction of a half-second, just as quickly as the hesitation appeared, Stan comes to his senses and makes the sane decision. He turns back around and continuesto his car.

Then, there’s Ford’s face again.

Standing between Stan and his car.

Planted. Stubborn. Daring. (The front of a determined ox, but in reality a fear-driven, undersocialized puppy locked iplace, shut down, too terrified to move.)

 _“Wait.”_ He pushes the words through clenched teeth, and the resolve is clear on his face even as his hands tremble. The ox pushes forward even as the puppy cowers in active submission. (Firm voice, unyielding gaze even as tears flow from his eyes, bleary streaks of saltwater down already-wet cheeks.) “Please just wait, Lee. I-I need to do something.”

“What the hell haven't you done yet?”

“I-it’s my fault. Everything. You shouldn’t have broken my machine, and I’m still angry with you for what you did, but I shouldn’t have let you go. I-I just need to apologize.”

His fists clench tight and he sets his jaw in place. Apologies don’t belong in Stan’s life (never have, never will). “Don’t.”

“Lee-”

“Didn’t I tell ya not to call me that? It’s not my name anymore.” He tries to push past his brother and into the car, but Ford continues to block his way.

“I’m not letting you drive away again. Just let me apologize, Stanley.”

And good Lord, wouldn’t Stan love to do that. He’d give anything to let Ford say he was sorry, to apologize to Ford in return, to open up, let himself feel, be Stanley Pines again, for the first time in years. But he can’t lose again (hard, harsh sidewalk against bitter teenage boy, loss, anguish, Dread), can’t handle another blow to his ego, so he throws defenses back up the only way he knows how: fighting.

“Fuck off, Ford. I don’t need an apology.”

“You deserve one.”

“I don’t want one.”

“Why won’t you just let me do this?”

“So you can feel better about yourself? Go crawlin' back to cozy college town with a clear conscience? Not a chance in hell, pal.”

“I’m not going to stand here and listen to you pity yourself like this!”

“Then _leave!_ For Moses’ sakes, Ford, what the hell are you still doing here, anyway?!”

And as tears well up in Ford’s eyes (hot, salty, angry tears, Guilt and Regret, nowhere to Go), Stan’s eyes flicker down to catch sight of mottled black-and-blue brushstrokes (hidden, stretching, blooming) just under the collar of Ford’s shirt. He bristles.

“What the fuck is this?” Accusatory, protective.

“Nothing.”

_“Ford.”_

“It’s nothing!”

Stan looks at him, pointedly, disbelieving, and slowly raises a hand up to make  his intention to pull back the collar of his brother’s shirt and inspect the discoloration further. Ford sighs and closes his eyes in concession, and Stan tugs down at the collar to reveal (disgusting, heart-lurching) hand-shaped bruises in the space between Ford’s neck and shoulder. His gut twists uncomfortably at the sight.

“You said nothing happened.”

“Nothing _did_ happen,” he defends, avoiding eye contact.

“There’s more.” Not a question; a realization, a too-well-educated guess. “Under your shirt. There’s more.”

His eyes burn with honest concern for his Twin; he suddenly couldn't care less about the apologies, the fighting, the defenses he painstakingly forged over the wayward years.

“Dammit,” he hisses, under his breath, meant only for himself, and Ford frowns. He opens the car door, grabs an old duffel bag, spins on his heel, starts trudging back to the motel. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Ford is speechless.

Stan stops about fifty feet into his trek and looks over his shoulder expectantly. “Come on. We’re going back inside.”

It’s not a request, and despite the way Ford was pleading for this action mere moments ago, the resolve in Stan’s voice makes it clear that this is not resignation, either. They’re going inside on Stan’s terms, and Ford can do nothing but follow.

Once in their room, Stan slams the door, locks it, and turns to face his brother with steadfast firmness, fixed purpose of will. “Show me.”

“I’m not comfortable with that, Stanley.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t comfortable either, so let’s just cut the crap and accept that we’re not gonna be gettin' cozy anytime soon.”

Ford sighs, unbuttons the top third of his shirt with shaking hands, and pulls it open so Stan can see the bruises flowering across his chest and shoulders.

Stan remains unreadable, expressionless, blank, but in his mind he’s reeling as he takes notice of a rust-colored bloodstain in a blurry, blotted line reaching up from the bottom of Ford’s shirt.

“What’s that?” he says coldly, throat closing around his words (hot, stiff, dry mouth and lips, every word sounding wrong, wrong, Wrong, every detail he notices worsening the tightness in his chest; had he noticed none of this before? Had he really never _looked_ at Ford until now?).

Ford’s expression (which he had managed to compose into a semi-emotionless pout) falters. He clears his throat, grasping for straws. “I, uh, I really don’t feel that this should be any of your concern-”

“Nuh uh. Don’t pull that shit on me, Stanford. You shoved yourself into my business just fine, and now it’s my turn.”

Ford sighs, begrudgingly lifts up the hem of his shirt, to reveal a wavering cut (deep, long, tracing the line of his hip bone and extending just below the belt of his khakis). Two pathetic butterfly closures are strapped over the wound, and Stan narrows his eyes at the gaping cut.

“What the _fuck?”_

“Stanley, it’s no big deal—I managed to stop the bleeding last night, and I cleaned it off and tended to it while you were sleeping-”

“Ford, you can’t get all mother hen on me about _this-”_ He gestures to his shoulder, “-when you have _that._ _That_ needs stitches, brainiac.”

(The nickname feels weird and warm in Ford’s ears, and it settles there and nudges at the hibernating hope in his brain.)

“I was going to see a doctor once we got you all sorted out-”

“Oh, fuck that. No. Sit down, asshole.”

He sits, but does not relax. Stan’s already going into the bathroom, coming back with two towels and a shallow glass dish that he places on the bedside table before rummaging through his duffel. “Stanley, I-”

Ford shoots right back up to his feet so fast his head spins when Stan produces from the bag an almost-empty bottle of cheap scotch and a spool of fishing line.

“No. No, no, _no,_ you are _not_ performing surgery on me, Stanley!”

“Relax, I’m just stitching you up.”

“That’s surgery!” Ford exclaims, voice cracking. Stan just rolls his eyes.

“Look at this.” He pulls the bottom of his T-shirt up to reveal a long, nasty scar across his abdomen (approximately four inches, extremely hypertrophic). “Look at that. That’s fuckin’ beautiful. I did that. Besides, I have an actual needle and thread this time, so it’ll be even better.”

“Oh, my God.” Ford might vomit. He stares up at the ceiling instead, trying to concentrate on breathing as his brother bites off a length of line and drops it and the needle in the glass bowl, pouring some whiskey over it to let them soak.

He can’t watch the preparation. It reeks so severely of malpractice and Stanford can practically _hear_ Joseph Lister turning over in his grave.

He’s finally almost relaxed, eyes closed and breaths beginning to even out, when Stanley decides to rip off the butterfly closures and pour scotch over the open wound.

It burns, burns, _burns,_ (lukewarm alcohol seeping into subdermal flesh) and Ford actually feels a bit of bile rise in the back of his throat when he looks down and sees Stan threading the needle.

“Don’t be a baby,” Stan snaps, determined to appear uncaring as he presses one towel to the wound and tosses the other up to his twin. “Bite down on this or something, and if you get sick, just try not to get any of it on me.” He removes the towel from the cut and looks at it carefully, biting his lip as he ensures there are no foreign materials or concerning amounts of swelling.

Ford bites down, locks his jaw, shuts his eyes, digs his nails into the palms of his hands, and it hurts, it hurts with an intense glowing sting, but Stan’s hands are gentle, steady, strong.

And it’s clumsy. It’s haphazard and poorly executed and once, Ford hears Stan curse under his breath, feels the needle work backward and go in at a different angle, and he damn near passes out, but he doesn’t.

When it’s done, it’s fine. It’s fourteen crude, heavy-handed knots along the curved line of Stanford’s hip, and it’s sore but it doesn’t hurt anymore, and he cries out when Stan splashes another ounce of whiskey onto the wound, but he doesn’t pull away when the gauze pads and tape go over the sutures to act as a layer of protection.

“You can cut ‘em out in a couple weeks,” Stan mutters, and it’s the first thing spoken between the two of them in over half an hour. Ford just nods, and they continue to remain silent as Stan starts preparing the needle again to use on himself.

By the time Stan is tying off the last few sutures, the sun is well over the horizon, strands of dusty, pastel light seeping through the windows and painting the brothers with soft, watercolor warmth.

The daylight is sobering. Ford can see in full color the grime caked over his brother’s clothes, the scars, scrapes, bruises. He’s thinner, now, but bigger, and the sweat beading his forehead leaves behind lines of light, saturated skin where the salt water cleaned off the dirt.

And Stan would be able to see more of Ford, too, but he doesn’t look. He fixates on his stab wound, fearing the chance for accidental eye contact, for noticing more that he hadn’t seen before; he can already feel the thick shame rising in his gut at the idea that he might look up and, in the light, see more bruises or scars, anything to remind him how little attention he's paid.

In the tenderness of the dawn, the silence, the rare opportunity to observe Stanley in a moment of gentle attention to detail as he tends to his own wounds after applying an even greater level of caring to his Twin, Ford feels himself prepared to speak.

“Lee-”

Stan responds instantly with a gruff, exasperated exhale.

“No, Lee, I want you to listen.”

“Fine,” he grunts, pretending to work on the stitches that are long since completed.

“You won’t let me apologize, so I won’t, but that wasn’t all that I wanted to say to you. I also wanted to-”

“To _what?”_

“To thank you.”

Stan goes still. He blinks, his mind wiping clear of every thought, every feeling; every blockade he had so carefully constructed weakens, the structural stability of his guard turning from that of a prison fortress to that of a house of cards. His composure falters, and he forgets himself just long enough to look up at his Brother, to speak, gentle, clear, Honest, “What?”

“Thank you. For saving me. After all that I’ve done, you could have just walked right past me when you saw me in that alley—hell, you _should_ have—but you didn’t.”

He blinks again, and his hands twitch. He’s frozen in time, submerged in an ice bath of brotherhood and displaced gratitude, staring up at his Twin with wide, vulnerable eyes.

“I thought that I never wanted to see you again, but had we not crossed paths last night, I don’t know what would have happened to me. And on top of that, you’ve treated my wounds-”

“You took care of mine, first.”

“You didn’t owe me anything.”

Stan takes a deep, shaking breath, tries to pull his thoughts together into some semblance of a speech-capable mind. After an excruciatingly long stretch of silence, Stan says, “You asked me how many times this shit has happened before.” He’s picking at the motel’s carpet, looking back down at his hands.

Ford sees the beginning of what may be a moment of honesty, and he shuts his mouth, eliminates any chance of screwing this up.

“It’s, uh... I dunno what I can tell ya,” he admits. “I lost count, actually. It happens all the time. That’s how I ended up in Washington; I can’t stay in one place too long, or I start makin’ enemies and they come back to find me.”

And that’s all he says, for now, and it’s enough for Ford. So they keep sitting, thinking, breathing in time with each other’s inhales and exhales, feeling the room turn friendly and warm with the sunlight peeking through the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't promise that the next chapter will be this long, but hopefully i'll at least be able to get it out a little faster! thank you guys for reading and supporting!!!


	10. Part 10: Who's Leaving?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Fordtato:_ ** _ I guess the next part should be Ford trying to convince Stanley to stay at his dorm with Fiddleford and him, even just for a few days _
> 
> **_ImGrunk:_ ** _ Since ford knows that stan can't stay for to long how about Ford asking Stan what his planes are and if he would like to stay with him and maybe catch up _

Ford is asleep, now, practically unconscious after an all-nighter filled with stress, pain, adrenaline—he crashed about fifteen minutes after their conversation (Stan only kept his eyes open thanks to the combined efforts of his recent bout of unconsciousness and his years of training himself never to let his guard down).

The younger twin is able to relax and ignore his aching thoughts for about forty minutes before he decides he needs a smoke; he goes outside, finds a pack in his car (half-empty, found on the corner of the street), and leans against the hood as he lights up. 

It’s about halfway burnt when it starts to rain (cloudy, cold, sprinkles and sprays of almost-rain spitting at the sidewalk), so Stan puts it out on his thigh (still wearing nothing but boxers and a clean T-shirt), goes back inside, and walks up to his room.

And Ford is awake now. On the floor. Packing a bag. 

It clicks too fast for Stan. He pushes through the stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, Anger Again) in a millisecond, and his walls, guards, barricades are built back up, twice as strong as before.

Stanford is leaving.

Why would he have stayed?

Ford turns around at the sound of the door clicking shut and smiles (fragile, feeble, frail) at his brother. “Hello.”

“You woke up fast,” Stan says gruffly.

“I, uh-” He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “I had a bad dream.”

It sounds childish. Separately but simultaneously, both brothers find themselves remembering a time when one could say something so simple  _ (I had a Bad Dream) _ and the other would instantly understand, rush to provide comfort.

(They both ignore their thoughts easily, having beat similar memories down countless times before.)

“So, you’re leaving, huh?” Bitter. Cold. It’s not a question, but an accusation.

Ford freezes, glances up at Stan, frowns. “I’m sorry?”

Stan gestures at his brother’s bags. “You’re leavin’, aren’tcha?”

He blinks, incredulous. “I have to go back to school, Lee. I’m sure my roommate is worried sick about me already-”

“Yeah, by all means.” Passive aggressiveness, bitter unresolved tension wins over desire to avoid conflict, any day. “Why stay here any longer than you have to?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not! I’m just saying, if you're gonna leave, leave. Don’t stick around on my account, for God’s sake.”

“Why are you doing this, Stanley?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re picking a fight for no reason, drawing conclusions with no evidence!”

“You’re packing a fucking bag to high-tail it outta here!”

“What were you expecting? For us to stay here indefinitely, frozen in time? You can’t stay here either, Stanley! You said it yourself: you stay in one place for too long, and your enemies start coming after you!”

Stan scoffs incredulously. “I wasn’t gonna just  _ leave you behind!” _

“You’ve done it before!”

Stan feels as if the wind has been knocked out of him. He actually flinches away from his brother’s words before quickly regaining composure, hands curling into fists, pupils narrowing coldly into focus. There’s that clenching in his stomach again and he panics, decides if Ford is going to leave, it should happen as soon as possible.

“Alright. Go.  _ Leave.” _

Ford sucks in a breath, backpedals as hard as he can. “No, Lee, I didn’t mean-”

“No, you’re right! As always, one-hundred percent correct! The boy genius does it again!” Stan takes another step forward, looking Ford dangerously in the eye. “Because that’s what I do, right? I leave. All brotherhood be damned, I leave ya behind in the dirt. And you begged me to come back, and I could’ve come home any time I wanted to, but I was just too selfish to care. And I got up, I packed my own fucking bags, and I left you, Stanford. That’s what happened, right? I. Left.  _ You.” _

Ford averts his gaze, picks anxiously at the skin around his fingernails. “I want you to come back with me,” he says softly, and everything stops.

(Buzzing white noise in the backs of Stan’s ears, the sound of the air moving and the dull hum of disbelief.)

“What?”

“That’s-” He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s why I was packing my bag. I wanted you to come back to my school. You can stay in my dorm, at least temporarily. I do have a roommate, but he’s very reasonable and I’m certain he won’t mind—as long as you don’t mind, that is.”

Stan’s hand twitches, searching for something to do. He sets his jaw, searches his brother’s expression for a bead of sweat, a lifted brow, a widened eye, an upturned lip, anything to indicate a lie. 

But he finds nothing.

Ford is telling the Truth. And that’s honestly more terrifying than the alternative.

“Why?” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Why the hell would you want to-” He cuts himself off, closes his eyes. (Don’t cry,  _ Don’t be Weak.) _

“Because you’re my Brother, Stanley.”

And what could Stan say?


	11. Part 11: Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_BlackNightmareDragon:_ ** _ Stan, at first, rejects Ford's offer to come with him, since he's gotten this far without his brother's help (for the most part, anyway) and thinks that Ford is only doing this out of pity for hi. He also thinks that as soon as Stan turns up, they'll realise that Ford's already shared student dorm is too small with Stan there as well, and Stan thinks that Ford will just end up kicking him out again. So what's the point in wasting all that effort packing up to move in just to be kicked straight back out again? Stan doesn't need Ford's help, he doesn't /want/ Ford's help. At least, that's what Stan would like to believe _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really short one, but the situation is delicate and I want you guys to be able to dictate the course of this conversation!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's been reading and supporting me so far!

Ford’s offer is an incompatible donor, and Stan’s body rejects it. The antigens in his blood fight tooth and nail against his brother’s attempt at mending a severed bond.

“No.”

Fork blinks. “I-I’m sorry?”

“No,” he repeats. “I don’t need your sympathy.”

“This isn’t sympathy, Lee! I-”

“That’s  _ not my name.” _

“Yes it is! Dammit, Stanley, we’re  _ Brothers.” _

“No we’re  _ not!” _

Ford’s stomach drops through to the floor. His bones ache and his heart tries to get blood to his brain so quickly that his veins ache, too. His eyes feel swampy. His whole body is recoiling. 

They just stare at each other for one long, slow moment of silence.

Molasses. 

Dread.

“Then why did you save me?” Soft, broken, pleading. Genuine confusion and curiosity laced with selfish intention to change Stan’s mind.

Stan clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth. Eventually, he starts to break, to let go of his tense muscles. “‘Cause you’re my Brother,” he admits, looking away sheepishly as he submits to his own unresolved emotions. “But I’m not yours.” 

Ford’s world is slipping through his fingers. He shakes his head, praying stubbornness can alter the events of the past. “Please let me help you.”

“What, so you can make yourself feel better? Treat me like some charity case so you can redeem yourself? No, Stanford! You don’t get that!” His voice is getting louder, stronger, and he’s starting to feel his cheeks heat up with anger. “You can’t fix this!  _ I don’t need your help, Stanford!” _

“What’s the alternative?! You continue going from town to town for the rest of your life?! You get harassed, attacked, and abused on a daily basis?! You die in a ditch at the age of twenty-seven, and you just- just—just  _ evaporate  _ from existence as long lost friends and enemies slowly come to realize you’re gone?!”

“And what’s  _ your _ plan, huh?! Ya delay the inevitable for a few days?! Ya put a roof over my head for a week, and suddenly my life turns around?!”

“I just want you to be safe!”

“You can’t save me, genius!” Stan explodes, and when did he start shaking? (Quaking, quivering, trembling.) “It’s too fuckin’ late!”


	12. Part 12: A Man of Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_fex-libris:_ ** _ stan starts to break down, says it's too late, that he's wasted every chance he's ever gotten at turning his life around and doesn't deserve another bc he'll just screw it up again, that maybe he's better off dead anyway. ford tries to convince him otherwise ... _
> 
> **_McLucky13:_ ** _ Ford sorta says that it being too late is bullshit ... Stan should give staying with him a chance instead of automatically giving up. Then Ford goes for the blow he knows will make Stan cave: we can get to know each other again, be brothers to each other again ... he won't leave him again ... A part of him knows that he's saying these things outta desperation and, worse, manipulation but Ford never claimed to be a saint. Stan sees the determination and seriousness in Ford's eyes, which he hadnt seen since they were kids, and the pathetically hopeful and vunerable part of him makes him crumble ... _

“It’s too fuckin’ late!” His voice cracks, but he can’t hear it; the blood rushing in his ears his deafening. Pain starts nagging at his shoulder, and he falls apart. “You can’t  _ save _ someone like me! I’ve wasted every fucking chance I’ve ever had! And I’m not gonna come crawling into your life just for you kick me out  _ again _ when I fuck up this chance, too! Just admit it: I’d be better off  _ dead. _ You’d be better off if I was dead, too.”

Ford can only watch, listen, stare as his Brother (this Stranger who looks like Stanley Pines, who looks like Stanford from a crueler, more painful reality) is torn apart before him, sewn (self-surgery, a dirty needle and a bottle of scotch) back together into a shivering, hyperventilating mess. He just wishes that he had something, Anything to say.

And then he does.

“We’re not Brothers anymore? Do you truly think that?” 

Stan swallows thickly; it sounds even worse from Ford’s mouth than from his own, and part of him wants to scream  _ No, _ because of  _ course _ they're Brothers, they’ll  _ always _ be Brothers, and everything Stan ever did was to make money, to get rich, to earn his right to go back home to Ford. 

But no matter how bad it sounds to hear, no matter how bad it tastes to say, it still doesn’t feel Wrong.

“Yeah,” he says firmly, digging his nails into his palms. He feels wet, sticky warmth (blood, blood, Blood) welling up between his fingers. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, I want to be Brothers again.” 

_ Stop. _

Stan’s heart goes cold, his blood goes still, and every neuron I'm his brain is firing, screaming  _ Take it. Take it. Take it. _ Pathetically, he needs this. It would have been so easy (so hard, but so Easy) to turn down pity, sympathy, charity, but an actual relationship? An actual Brother?

A long moment passes before Stan realizes he’s not breathing, and he inhales, sharp, trembling, painful. 

“We can talk. We can get to know each other again. I want to be your  _ Brother, _ Lee.”

(And maybe Ford is still angry, and maybe he doesn’t want to forgive, forget, move on, and maybe he’s just desperate to ease his guilty conscience, and he still knows Stan well enough to know what will make him give in because  _ He wanted to sail the world with you so goddamn  _ **_bad_ ** _ , _ but maybe he’s okay with being a little bit manipulative because he Will Not let Stanley go back out there and Keep Getting Hurt.)

Hope blooms in Stan’s chest like an orchestra tuning up, rising crookedly and painfully until it gently warms up, crescendos into harmonious sounds and flowering emotion. 

He stomps it down. 

He can’t afford hope anymore.

“No,” he says firmly, and it hurts more than it did the first time. “I-I can’t do it again.” 

Ford steps closer, because he knows it almost had it, he  _ saw _ the indecision flicker in Stan's eyes. He preemptively regrets this promise, but he prays a quick apology to the G-d he doesn’t believe in before saying, “I won’t leave you again. I won’t let you leave me again.”

_ (You can’t deliver. You’ll let him down.) _

_ (He’s my Brother. If he needs me to stay with him, I will.) _

“You’ll kick me out. You’ll make me leave. Or I’ll leave on my own, but you sure as hell can’t tell me we’ll never fall apart again.”

“I won’t let it happen.”

_ “Things fall apart, _ Stanford. You can’t fucking control it. Good things don’t stick around, not in my life.”

“I’m a man of Science.” The resolve in his eyes, in his face, radiating from every tense, hardened muscle in his body is a strong wave of cool determination, and it hits Stan and pulls him under. “If some outside force, some sort of fate or destiny or mystic law, is dictating your life to specifically prevent you from being happy, I will identify it, I will study it, I will decrypt it, and I will  _ change  _ it.”

(Somewhere, deep down, he’s telling the Truth.)

Somewhere else, on the surface, treading the water of his brother’s determination, Stan says, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for the Stans to go to school....


	13. Part 13: Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_ciycat:_ ** _ Ford takes Stan to his dorm were he is introduced to fiddleford and they explain the run down of what's happened and that Stan is going to stay with them _ _   
>  _ _ Fiddleford is varry understanding and awesome _
> 
> **_McLucky13:_ ** _ Fiddleford is surprised (as all hell) to find out that Ford has a twin. Does the whole "I never knew!" (And that sorta stings Stan and makes Ford feel guilty and awkward) and "You two look so alike!" That people do when they see twins, and accepts Stan rooming. Fidds is all kooky and nice with Stan and that relaxes him a bit. Now Stan could get a job on campus _
> 
> **_FierceHurricane:_ ** _ [Stan] tells ford he's not going to be a freeloader and he's gonna get a job or something. turns out getting a job is not that easy when you're a wanted man with ni id so he starts selling himself on the street, nothing he's never done before _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this chapter is a) really long, and b) a bit of a mess. partially because I wanted to convey the chaos of trying to sort of explain a very complex situation to an irate southern engineering student, but mostly because my entire life got unexpectedly ripped away from right under my feet while I was writing it, so in a tearful rage I threw the last half of it together with slapdash plot organization 
> 
> I promise the next chapter will be very beautiful, and Very Angsty.
> 
> I mean, of course the angst level is entirely up to you, but I mean, come on. how many directions are there to go at this point?

"Stanford!"

Fiddleford looks... angry. He looks like a furious little man who hasn't slept in three days. Ford can only smile sheepishly, shrugging weakly in attempt to gloss over the situation. "Did, uh... Did you miss me?"

"Did I  _ miss _ you?!" He punches Ford (hard) in the shoulder, and his anger immediately melts into apology when his roommate gasps in pain—did Fiddleford hit a bruise? Had Stanford been injured? "Oh, Lord, I'm so sorry!" He starts to notice the bruises, the scrapes, the black eye. "What... What  _ happened _ to you?"

"Look, it's a really,  _ really _ long story, Fiddleford, but first I need to-"

"Need to what? Need to go run off for another weekend, disappear without a trace? No note, no nothing?!"

"Fiddleford, I told you well in advance that I would be leaving-"

"You didn't tell me why, and you sure as shoot didn't tell me you weren't comin' back! You could've been  _ dead _ , Stanford! Looks like you came darn close to it, too! Where in tarnation  _ were _ you?!"

"Alright." A new voice hit the room as Stanley pushed through the door, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "I'm tired of standing outside the door and waiting for you two nerds to get on the same page."

Ford just closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long exhale of frustration as Fidds stares at the interloper with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. 

After a stretch of silence, Fidds composes himself and whispers hesitantly, "Uh, Stanford, I don't know how to tell you this, but the man who just walked in looks  _ exactly _ like you."

"I know," Ford sighs. He takes a half-step to the side and gestures to Stan as the younger twin steps forward into the dorm. "Fiddleford, this... This is my brother Stanley."

Confusion, hesitance, surprise flickers briefly in Fiddleford’s eyes. His gaze meets Stanford’s, and the brunet gives him a significant look. Fiddleford furrows his brow for a fraction of a second before looking back at Stan with bright eyes and a toothy, cheerful grin. “Well, kettle my corn—howdy, Stanley! Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, at your service.” He sticks out a hand, hoping the chaotic state of the room and the dark circles under his eyes aren’t too unseemly.

The polite, charming confidence man comes out of Stan naturally, and he puts on a bright smile and firmly accepts Fiddleford’s handshake despite his discomfort with the situation. “Good to meet ya, Fidds.”

“You two are just about identical, aren’tcha?” He whistles low, impressed. “Stanford never told me he had a twin!”

And Stan’s face falls. His poise melts away, a carefully composed ice sculpture of politeness and suavity shoved into a sticky, intense heat. He clenches and unclenches his fists (dried blood still smeared on his palms from holding on so tight that trembling fingers cut through tense, calloused flesh) to relieve the pressure building within him. He throws a bitter glance at Ford and mutters, “He didn’t, huh?”

Ford clears his throat awkwardly. “We, uh- It’s a bit complicated, Fiddleford.”

The southerner senses the tension (he’ll have to bring this up later, when he can properly chastise Stanford for disappearing) and quickly steers the conversation elsewhere. “Well, shoot, where are my manners? Come on in, Stanley! Cop a squat anywhere ya like, and I’ll fetch us some drinks. The room is a bit of a mess, ‘cause I wasn’t expectin’ company, but you should be able to make yourself at home just the same.”

“Erm, about that, Fiddleford...” Ford awkwardly follows his friend to the icebox in the corner of the room. “How ‘at home’ might he be able to make himself?”

Fidds arches an eyebrow, expression suddenly colder, more discriminating (hospitality not extending to his very-much-still-in-trouble friend) as he regards his roommate. “Now, just what in the Lord’s name is that supposed to mean?”

“He has no place to live at the moment, so I sort of told him that he could stay with us for a while. Is that alright?”

His eyes turn kind, soft, and careful. “Of course he can,” he answers, putting a reassuring hand on Ford’s shoulder. “As long as he needs.” He looks over to Stan (who is now sitting on the ladder of their bunk bed, shoulders hunched, staring down at his feet) with a gentle smile and says, “If you’re Ford’s family, you might as well be mine, too.”

Stan looks up, eyes wide, smile spreading across his face. “Ya won’t regret it, Fidds. I won’t intrude, I swear. I’ll go out and get a job, make some money, so you won’t even notice I’m here. I’ll be out of your hair in two weeks, tops.”

“What?” Ford frowns and takes a step toward his brother. “Stanley, I told you. You’re my Brother. I want to be your Brother, I—I  _ want _ you to stay here. Take some time. Get some sleep, eat some food, tend your wounds-”

“Wounds?” Fiddleford sends a worried glance toward both brothers. “Are you two hurt?”

Ford says, “Slightly,” at the same time that Stan says, “No.” They make eye contact with each other, then glance at Fiddleford and both admit, “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“We got beat up,” answers Stan, simultaneous with Ford’s hesitant, “There was a mild misunderstanding.”

“A  _ misunderstanding?” _ Fidds presses.

“I mean,  _ I  _ understood pretty damn well what they wanted to do, but Mr. Genius over here might’ve been a bit confused.”

“Hang on, ‘they?’ It was  _ people? _ What on Earth did they do to you?”

“Nothin’ I couldn't handle.”

“Oh, so was that your definition of ‘handling’ the situation?”

“Saved  _ your _ ass,” Stan grumbles, crossing his arms in a pout as he averts his gaze.

Fiddleford starts rubbing his temples in small, tense circles. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

“Ford got himself stuck between a rock and a hard place, and I got him out. Simple as that.”

“I was-” Ford sighs. “I was passing through an unsavory part of town at night—admittedly a bad idea—and a group of people attacked me.” 

“What did they want?”

“My bag. And, er-” An awkward cough, a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know what else.”

(Only a little bit of a lie.)

“Thank God you’re okay!”

“You ought to thank Stanley for that, actually. Serendipity was on my side and he happened to walk past and save me, despite... Well, despite a falling out we had some years ago.” 

“What sort of falling out?” Fiddleford asks hesitantly.

Neither brother responds.

Stan has been incredibly quiet the entire time, in fact—he’s staring downward, eyes fixated on his feet, jaw set in place as he focusses on staying quiet. 

“We haven't spoken in four years,” Ford eventually resumes, hoping it will serve as a sufficient explanation for the time being. He looks over to his brother and watches him as he says, with embittered fondness, “Despite that, he decided to run in half-cocked and get the devil beat out of him.” 

That gets a reaction out of Stan. He sits up straight and scowls at Ford. “Yeah, you’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“Obviously, I’m glad to be alive, Stan! I just would have prefered if you didn’t get yourself stabbed in the process of saving me.”

“Yeah, well, I would’ve preferred if you didn't let some pervert cut you up before I got there.”

Fiddleford’s blood pressure is through the roof. His arteries might burst. He squeaks,  _ “Excuse _ me?!” 

“He’s fine,” Stan assures, rolling his eyes. “I fixed him up, good as new.”

“You performed  _ subdermal surgery _ on me! With whiskey and fishing line!”

“You needed  _ stitches?!  _ You got cut up, and- and  _ stabbed, _ and-”

“At least I knew what I was doing! What were  _ you _ doing, just roaming the streets, waiting to get raped or killed or-”

_ “Stanford.” _ Fidds silences the room, barely containing his own nervous trembles. “Can I talk to you for a moment? Out in the hallway?”

“Stanford, you know you’re my best friend, and I am more than happy to let your brother stay here as long as he needs. But for three years you never mention a thing about your family, then you disappear for an entire weekend and come back with a  _ brother? _ An  _ identical twin brother _ who looks like he’s been through hell and back, who’s getting stabbed and giving you stitches and talking about violent criminal activity like it’s no big deal?!”

Ford holds up his hands in a placating gesture to Fiddleford’s angry shouting whispers. “Now, Fiddleford, I realize this seems like... a lot.”

“A lot? A  _ lot? _ No, Stanford, coming back from classes to a dorm room with no furniture and thirty-four jars of beetles was a _ lot. _ Living off overripe bananas and discarded chicken strips for two weeks because you spent all of our money on a failed experiment was a  _ lot-” _

“I don’t think it’s exactly fair to call the experiment  _ failed-” _

“This,” Fiddleford interjects, taking a step closer to emphasize his point. “This is almost too much.”

“I know, Fidds, and I’m sorry. I truly am. But he really needs a place to stay, and-”

“Oh, no. You misunderstand me, Pines.” He crosses his arms. “This man needs you. I have no clue what happened between the two of y’all way back when, but it’s plum obvious to me which one of you got the shorter end of the stick.”

Ford bites his lip. "It's really very complicated, Fidds."

“I'm certain it is. But I don't reckon you dragged him back here from a life of homelessness because you  _ don’t _ feel guilty."

Ford blinks. "How did you-"

"I grew up in the Ozarks, Stanford. I know what it looks like when someone hasn't washed their clothes for eight days."

Stanford closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, nods first to himself, then to Fiddleford. “I just want to fix things,” he says softly. “Any way that I can.” 

“Well, as much as I would love to let the poor guy stay here and decompress, we really can't afford to let another person stay here. You’re takin’ too many classes to work, and my job’s barely payin' for our food. Your brother’s gonna have to get a job.” 

Ford nods again. “I appreciate that you're letting him stay here, Fiddleford. I owe you one.”

“You owe me about a dozen and a half, Stanford,” Fidds smiles, good-natured and friendly. He pats his friend on the shoulder, then reenters the dorm to find Stanley sitting on the floor, back propped against the wall, sound asleep.

Fidds and Ford both smile. 

(And when Stan wakes up in a cold sweat with trembling hands and tense shoulders, they don't say a word.)

(And when he leaves before noon to hunt for jobs and returns well after dinner time with an anxious, kicked-puppy look  _ (If you don’t get a job, you don’t deserve to stay here. You’re gonna Let Him Down. Again),  _ they don’t ask what’s wrong.)

(And when he’s gone all of the next day and most of the night, coming back at 1:00 in the morning with a clumsy, stumbling gait and dark, weary eyes but a proud smile and a handful of cash, they don’t press for details.)


	14. Part 14: Be Careful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _FierceHurricane:_  
>  **  
>  _  
>  what if stan gets hurt...? what is one client is too rough or does something that triggers bad memories for stan?  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> _fex_libris:_  
>  **  
>  _  
>  maybe in his haste to get away from whoever hurts him, he winds up in an unfamiliar part of town and has to find a payphone to call ford to bring him home. and when ford gets there and sees what happened to stan and what part of town he's in, he puts two and two together and realizes what stan has been doing  
>  _

Turns out, finding a job is hard.

Like, really difficult. Students only at the library, custodians require background checks, and no one wants a nasty, musty cutting board serving food at the kitchen. Like hell Stan was gonna tutor anybody—his brains aren’t worth two bits or a shitstain. But he’s been living with Ford for two days, which means if he doesn't make some money today, he'll officially be a freeloader.

So he makes a shitty decision. A really, really shitty decision.

It’s not bad work (offer some random rate, shut your eyes and think about Carla, get the client enough off their guard that you can steal their wallet and get the hell outta Dodge). Stan grabs all the cash from the billfold and leaves it, cards and all, on the sidewalk as he runs, because people who haven't had their identity stolen tend to be less likely to file a police report about the whore they tried to hire.

Trouble (angry fists, sharp knives, bitter loaded slurs and insults thrown like Molotov cocktails into a raging riot) comes when they don't want to pay you in the first place, when scum-of-the-earth doesn’t deserve money, when gay-for-pay vagrants apparently lack the humanity to have a say in their own fate.

He was on his way home, too—he’d just finished with another client, a nice one who followed the rules and paid in full and didn’t linger afterward. And he was walking back to his car, slow and relaxed, when suddenly there’s an arm extending from behind him and (cool, sharp) something presses against his throat and a hand (sweaty, clammy) clamps over his mouth. “Scream and you die.”

So Stan doesn’t scream.

He kicks, hard, behind him, the trained movement throwing the attacker off enough that the switchblade digs down and cuts across Stan’s shoulder (bright, loud pain, burning stinging slicing that also cuts across the sutures and opens the stab wound fresh, which, _Ow)_ , and he jabs his elbow back into the man’s gut. “Sorry, pal, but I’ve actually got somewhere to be.”

As he tries to run off, the man (big, Strong) grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back, kicking in the backs of his knees, throwing him onto the ground while a second one (has he been there the whole time?) grabs Stan’s other arm and together they drag him (kicking, flailing) into the nearest alley.

Stan keeps fighting back. He won’t stop.

And this wouldn’t have happened if Stan could’ve just relied on his preferred money maker: bum fights and underground boxing matches (split lip, broken nose, counting out the 50s and 100s in his hand), but coming home all beat to hell (black and blue and red all over) would beg explanation when faced with his Brother. So he needed a subtler option.

Some great fucking alternative this turned out to be.

He’s running (shooting pain, pain, Pain down his left leg, swollen knee joints, one too many kicks trying to bend his leg backwards), his heart is pounding (or maybe his head is throbbing because of the concussion), and his face is the worse for wear. The amount of blood (blood, blood, Blood) smeared across his mouth (chin, cheeks, chest) must look shocking, if the swollen lip and black eye aren't disgusting enough. It’s raining, cold and misty spits and sprinkles against his tense back, and the sharp water droplets sting his cuts and scrapes, but hopefully he’ll at least get a little cleaned up (but, with Stan’s luck, there’ll be just enough water to dilute the blood and smear it around and make everything look worse).

And they’re gonna catch up to him. There’s no way he can outrun these guys with his fucking limp and these shitty goddamn lungs he has, grace à four years of gas station hot dogs and half-smoked stogies he’s been picking off the side of the road. So all he hears (save for spitting rain, heaving breaths, his heartbeat drumming like Bonham) is clomping footfalls getting louder, louder, Closer, then a smack _(Crack?)_ of Something against the back of his skull, then

Nothing.

* * *

 

He wakes up bruised, aching, blind (or maybe just in the dark, or _whatever_ , what’s the Difference), and he hasn't a clue where he is. Not even an inkling. And damn, _Shit_ , wouldn't it have been great if he listened to his mother ( _oh, G-d, Ma)_ all those time she tried to tell him to See The Bright Side Of Things, and wouldn't it be just fucking _excellent_ if he could see Anything, Literally Anything At All, because right now the only sensations he has to go off of (besides the soreness- no, the _Pain_ blooming like fucking marigolds up his goddamn asshole, and he really wishes it wasn’t so _familiar)_ are cold concrete under his legs and the stench of motor oil and sewage, and-

Oh. There’s the light.

Dammit. How out of it does Stan have to be that he just now opens his goddamn eyes?

Fuck.

Okay, this is Bad. This is bad, bad, _Bad,_ because no matter what angle Stan looks at this, he needs help. And he can’t just fucking sleep it off and keep conning money from people until he gets back on his feet like usual, because he’s got _people_ now, he’s got _Stanford_ and he's got _Fiddleford_ and God fucking _dammit,_ they’re going to notice he’s gone. And he would love to not give a shit, but Ford made that stupid goddamn Promise _(I won't let you leave me),_ and that stubborn son of a dick is going to come fucking _looking_ for Stan and land himself in trouble again and this time, Stan won't be able to save him. So he drags himself back onto his feet and shambles out of the alley, wandering the streets for his car (nowhere in sight, because that would be too fucking Lucky) or anything to indicate where the hell he is. Or even...

_(Fuck.)_

It takes him a solid seven minutes standing in front of the payphone to muster up the courage to dial Ford’s number.

* * *

 

“What time is it, Fiddleford?”

Fidds glances up from the circuit board he’s been tinkering with for the past three hours and to the clock. “Three o’clock.”

Ford is quiet for a moment, lips pursed pensively. “In the morning?”

“Well, if it’s three in the afternoon, you darn well better get yourself to class.”

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.” He turns back to his work, a rushed rough draft diagram of an atomic entanglement chamber for a personal project of his, before his thoughts get the better of him and he once again puts down his pencil. “Where the devil is Stanley?”

“Don’t curse,” Fiddleford says automatically. Then, he pauses and thinks for a bit, tapping on his desk with a finger. “I reckon he’s still at work.”

“At three in the morning? Where does he work?”

Fidds bites his lip, taking a nervous moment to let his mind wander before shaking his head and insisting, “Don’t worry, Stanford. I’m sure he’s just fine.”

“Why won’t he tell us what he’s been doing, Fiddleford?”

“He’s _fine._ He’s got street smarts, Stanford. He’ll be alright.”

Both men return to work, but the air is significantly heavier, weighed down by tension and anxiety, and with each passing moment the weight grows. Ford’s overactive and overimaginative mind starts to turn inward, and it becomes nearly impossible to focus on work. He glances anxiously at the clock every forty seconds.

It’s a little bit past three thirty when the phone rings, and Ford answers it so fast it makes Fiddleford jump.

“This is Stanford Pines.”

“Ford?” Strained, shaky, weak.

“Lee?” The weight lifts _(He’s okay)_ , and it’s glorious. “Lee, where are you?”

“Um, I don't-” He coughs, a loud, nasty hack that raises the hairs on the back of Ford’s neck. “I don’t know.”

And the weight comes back down.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Where the hell are you?”

“Uh- Fuck. Hang on, hang on. 118th and, uh, Dearborn. There’s a weird tattoo place across the street-”

“Wait, Dearborn?” That’s the street where Stanford... _Oy._ A bad, bad feeling starts to brew in the pit of his stomach. “What are you doing out there, Stanley?”

“Ford, I don’t have time to explain, just- Come pick me up.” His voice takes on that desperate, panicked quality that Ford’s only ever heard one other time, back when Stan needed help sneaking in their bedroom window so Pa wouldn't find out he was gone all night. “I don’t know where my car is and I just, I need you to- I need _someone_ to-”

“Hey,” Ford stops him, voice soft and gentle with concern. “I’ll—I’ll be right there. It’ll be about an hour, though, if you’re all the way out there. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I- I’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out. Just hurry.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

He’s about to hang up when he hears Stanley’s voice again.

“Wait—Ford?”

It’s broken, hesitant, feeble. Something twists in Ford’s gut. “Yes?”

“Just, ah... Be careful, okay?”

“I-” Ford swallows thickly, glancing at Fiddleford with an uneasy expression. “I will.”


	15. Part 15: Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __**fex_libris:** by the time ford gets there, stan's started to work himself into a panic, worrying about if the guys who attacked him are going to come back and how long ford is taking to find him and how much blood he's losing from his reopened wound. ford tries to get stan to tell him what happened and wants to take him to the hospital, but the thought of doing either of those things just upsets stan even more  
>  **BlackNigtmareDragon:** When Ford finds Stan, maybe Stan's clients have caught up to him and....something happens to Ford. Maybe ... they think that Ford's 'services' could be better than Stan's since Ford a) isn't injured and b) looks a little more appealing?  
>  **RedPineTree:** Stan's attackers catch up = confrontation?  
>  **FierceHurricane:** when ford goes to pick stan up, he's so worried and scared that he is very loud and says mean stuff to stan, cementing even more his victim blaming and it isn't until they reach home to fidds (with ford still being an asshole) that stan finally has a breakdown and comfort happens 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW this took forever. sorry y'all!!!
> 
> I kind of got.equal parts "attackers show.up" and "they go.home" so I just ... well, you'll see.

The streets are cold the rain is hard the night is dark his shoulder is Pain and there's blood everywhere Blood Everywhere too much too much too much hot warm red washing over cool goosebumps arm and his head throbs his legs ache his hands shake and  _ What If They Come Back. _

_ No, they left you. They Left You for dead, they wouldn’t come back-  _

They won’t find him if they do. The payphone Stan found is three blocks from where he woke up, and he doubts they'll put too much effort into a search party if he's not right where they left him. But still, he feels himself 

_ Panic. panic. panic terror  _ **_Dread_ ** _ anxious swelling gut feelings of impending doom, tight chest tight throat tight fists bloody palms bloody knuckles blood blood Blood and don’t cry oh my G-d don’t cry  _ Don’t be Weak _ Stanford will be here soon he’ll be here soon he’ll get here safe and pick you up and take you H _

Don’t say Home. 

Never say Home.

He’s shaking. He’s holding his knees against his chest and trembling and watching for Ford, hoping against hope he’ll be able to find him. Hoping against hope he won’t get into any trouble before he does. But like always, hope fails him.

The first time Stan sees Ford again, he’s being dragged by the arms by the same men Stan had fled. They throw him down next to Stan, and he’s already beat to hell, weak and worn and torn and cut and scraped and bleeding, bleeding,  _ Bleeding _ oh my God, Stan’s stomach is churning and his chest is tight and breathing hurts, hurts, Hurts, and the men are talking, something about “Couldn’t believe my luck when I saw another one of you running around out here” and “This one is in way better condition, too—well,  _ was” _ and all Stan can do is  _ (I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry) _ Apologize for everything, for riding on Ford’s coattails, for breaking his project, for being a burden, for getting them in trouble, for sticking around any longer than just to drop him off at a safer place and drive back off, because none of this would have happened if he wasn’t  _ such a useless piece of shit, you Break everything you touch, you don’t deserve to live you never deserved anything and now you’ve ruined your Stanford too- _

“Stanley?”

Stan’s eyes snap open, and there’s Ford. Standing above him, clean, healthy, Safe.

“F-” His voice isn’t working right. He coughs and blood gets on Ford’s shirt, and  _ Oh my God, I’m so sorry _ but the words don’t sound like words, just whimpers.

Ford’s voice is panicked, urgent,  _ scared  _ (Dread). “Stanley? What the hell happened to you?! I don’t know how long you were unconscious, but you’re drenched in blood, and I-”

“Ford,” he finally manages, trying to get his eyes to cooperate, let him look at his brother,  _ see _ him, confirm that he’s here, he’s okay, he’s Safe.

“Shut up,” he snaps, scared to death that any level of exertion will be Too Much and Stan will close his eyes again. He lays a hand on his Brother, and Stan flinches, breath faltering for a moment. Ford pulls back with a loud sigh. “Stanley, I need to get you into the car, okay? I doubt you can get up by yourself, so unless you-”

“No, it's- Sorry. ‘M okay.” 

As they work together to get Stan up and into the car, Ford’s mind swirls with fear and anxiety. Once in the light of the car, he can see the blood and bruises riddling his brothers body and he shakes his head, feeling the Dread boil up like hot anger.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, and Stan’s hands are shaking dangerously, disquiet and blood loss. 

“Nothing,” he lies, and he doesn't even want Ford to believe it. He just wants to stop talking. 

“Yeah. Right.” He lectures Stan while tending his wound with the first aid kit from the bed of Fiddleford’s pickup. “I can't believe this, Stanley. I can’t believe you would be so  _ irresponsible _ to just go throw yourself into danger after I gave you a second chance—Actually, I  _ can _ believe it. This is  _ exactly _ something you would do. You know what? I’m taking you to the hospital.” 

“No!” Stan croaks, then erupts into another fit of coughing. 

_ “Yes,” _ Ford presses, throwing the car into drive and gripping the wheel too tight. “Moses—you should  _ see _ yourself, Stanley! Do you think I want to do this? To drive out fifty miles in the middle of the night—when I should be  _ working _ —to pick you off the side of the street because you couldn't be bothered to get a proper  _ job?!”  _

Stan’s ears are pounding. Ford sounds far away, but too close  _ (Too Close), _ and he feels cold but boiling and indignant but ashamed and he just feels himself cry, but it’s silent and goes unnoticed. 

Ford glances in Stan’s direction and sees him, crumpled and vulnerable, and the panic, fear,  _ Dread _ is replaced, for a moment, by a quieter, gentler warmth and concern. 

“Look,” he offers, voice softer. “We don’t have to go to the hospital.”

Stan nods thankfully, staring blindly out the window.

“Just—When we get to the dorm. Try not to be a burden. Okay?”

Stan’s breath catches around a lump in his throat.

He can only respond with another nod.

* * *

 

“Good gracious— _ Stanley?!”  _ Fidds’ voice is a high-pitched shriek, a frantic exclamation. 

“He’s fine,” Ford says bitterly, throwing the keys on the table and angrily digging through his closet for some clothes Stan could wear. He grabs a college T-shirt he never wears and throws it at his Brother, followed by a pair of boxers and some flannel pants. “He’s irresponsible and  _ moronic, _ but he’s  _ fine.” _

“Like heck he’s fine!” The Southerner abandons the piles of work at his desk to run up to Stan and look him over. “Ya look worse than when ya first came in! What happened?!”

_ “Yes, _ Stanley—tell us.” Ford turns to face Stan head-on, crossing his arms. “What happened?”

Stan looks between the two, lightheaded and achy—he just wants to shower, to boil himself under scalding water and crawl under a pile of blankets and sleep until time starts going backwards. 

He can see the disdain in Ford’s eyes (Ford’s eyes are  _ fear, panic, Dread _ but Stan can only feel the Anger) and the Stress on Fidds’ face and he knew it was matter of time before his luck ran dry  _ (Try not to be a Burden) _ and in the back of his head he knows that if This were the last straw, Ford wouldn’t have driven him home, but that’s in the  _ back _ and in the forefront, voices are screaming  _ You blew it You blew it YOU BLEW IT _ .

He holds the wad of Ford’s clothing tight in his hands, as if the loose, yellow fabric will stabilize his tremors. “I-” He shuts his eyes  _ (Don’t cry, Don't cry, Don’t cry) _ and shakes his head. “Please don’t make me leave.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what happens next!


End file.
